The carriage slowed at the city gate.
A guard stood watch—three eyes, one helmet worn sideways, spear resting politely against nothing in particular. The mayor leaned out of the diagonally-open window and gestured.
"Ah! Perfect timing," the mayor said. "Guard, meet Un."
The guard squinted.
Then looked again.
Then froze.
Because now the guard could see the face properly.
And the crown.
It wasn't ornate. It wasn't ostentatious. It simply was—resting as if it had always belonged there, as if the head beneath it had been waiting its entire existence to grow into the right shape.
The guard dropped the spear.
"THE KING IS HERE," the guard screamed, already running. "THE KING IS HERE—THE KING IS HERE—"
A bell rang.
No one knew who rang it.
That didn't matter.
The city exploded into motion.
Doors slammed open. Windows unfolded sideways. People poured into the streets carrying food, candles, banners, instruments, furniture, other people. Tables assembled themselves midair. Chairs floated into neat, celebratory clusters. Fireworks launched from rooftops that had not previously contained fireworks.
Banners unfurled bearing Un's face.
Un blinked.
"How do they— I just— I just made this body," he muttered.
Paintings appeared.
Large ones.
Small ones.
Some still wet.
They depicted Un—regal, heroic, antlered—battling dragons, wrestling unicorns, standing triumphantly over some enormous tentacled thing that nobody could identify.
"What is that one?" Un asked aloud.
"Oh, that?" someone said helpfully. "No idea. But it feels menacing."
"Very menacing," another agreed.
The crowd swelled. Music happened without instruments. Confetti rained upward. The giggling—always distant—seemed almost pleased.
Un stood in the middle of it all, stiff and overwhelmed.
The mayor stepped down from the carriage and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," the mayor said. "The party awaits."
Un recoiled. "Wait—Majesty? I'm not anyone's majesty."
The mayor straightened, puzzled. "But you have a crown."
"That doesn't—"
"And you are Unreal Reality."
"Yes, but—"
"And by being our reality, you are technically our ruler."
Un stared. "That feels like a loophole."
"It is," the mayor agreed cheerfully.
"I don't even know how politics work," Un said, gesturing helplessly at the city, the banners, the screaming pastries being arranged into pyramids.
The mayor waved a hand. "Nobody knows how politics work."
There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.
"That's… okay, fair point," Un conceded. "But I'm not emotionally ready to be a king."
"Oh, the title is mostly ceremonial," the mayor said. "You just need to continue being our existence. No real duties. No castle. Unless you want a castle."
Un opened his mouth.
"I imagine it would be for aesthetic purposes," the mayor continued, tugging lightly at Un's cape, "like this."
"Ow! Ow—wait, that hurt?"
Un grabbed the cape himself and tugged.
"Ow!"
He froze. "How does that hurt? This is—this is part of me?"
A bystander tilted their head. "I mean, how would you notice without tugging on it?"
"And why would you tug on your cape to begin with?" another added.
There was a thoughtful murmur.
Un sighed. Deeply. "Okay. Fine. I'm your king."
The city erupted.
Cheers, applause, confetti, a bear fainting dramatically. Someone set off fireworks shaped like antlers.
"Now," Un added quickly, "can I at least have some cake?"
Instantly, several tables slammed into place before him, stacked with cakes and pies—each one screaming in a different pitch, tone, and emotional register.
Un's eyes lit up. "Oh. So many flavors. So many screams."
He pointed. "You."
A pie vanished into his hands and then into his mouth.
Apple.
High-pitched.
Satisfied, Un chewed thoughtfully.
"This," he said, "might actually work."
The party continued.